Sliding Scales
by UltimateParadox
Summary: Syrenne knows some magic can be useful, and others not so much.


**Sliding Scales**

Syrenne didn't trust spell casters so much as she depended on them. Several members of their ragtag mercenary troupe knew a specialized magic and they could be relied on to use their skills when the situation asked for it. She was sure that if the three mages hadn't been around, there wouldn't be a lot left of the three that could only preen their technique at swordplay. She was grateful, but that didn't make her trust them wholeheartedly. After all, they weren't bad people, just tricky.

Mirania, the tiny little thing, was practically a life saver. Her healer's circle energized her companions and closed all but the most gruesome of injuries—because if there was one thing Syrenne had learned on the fields of war, it was nothing had the power to revive the fallen. The circle even expunged poisons from even the deepest regions of the human body (and, regretfully, listed among poisons was alcohol, and to kill Syrenne's buzz was to kill her mood entirely. Mirania always apologized, though, and offered a few coins to cover another drink that Syrenne sometimes accepted and sometimes did not).

There was also Yurick, a haughty young man with an attitude as unforgiving as his magic. He'd become quickly indignant at the suggestions to use his mastery of fire to provide campfires or light, claiming a waste of energy and a sorcerer's pride, but as soon as danger crept their way, Yurick would certainly leave the battlefield smoking, the ground scented strongly of burned flesh and ash. His power was astonishing, but never once had he lit up without ensuring the safety of his fellows.

The two of them were probably the only two magic users that Syrenne could even hope to begin to trust. She gave it to them at arms length, having seen them as favorable allies, but they couldn't hope for much more than that from Syrenne. Fragile memories of war, where both mages and warriors fled in cowardice, leaving Syrenne and her unit to the jackals. Enemy mages were also an undesirable dilemma, and the shrieks of her fellow swordswomen echoing through the recesses of her mind as lightning ruined their insides sometimes stole her sleep. Magic and all that used it were always under Syrenne's careful eye, but she could turn her back to these two and feel right as rain.

The last mage she had prolonged experience with in their travels was nowhere near as trustworthy. While Lowell was a great asset in battle and an ideal drinking companion (albeit one she could continually drink under the table), he often reminded Syrenne of the soldiers that had deserted with their tails tucked between their legs. He would allow his gaze to linger on far too many women and would say whatever garish words he could come up with to the one's that noticed. He was crooked and shameless, giving her a run for her money to prove between the two of them just who wore the pants. In skirmishes he would stay within Mirania's range, flaunting spell work like a child that couldn't care less if he hit his target or not. Worst of all, though, was that those fleeting spells hit hard, and were doubtlessly useful, so she couldn't afford to bark at him to stop.

They were also doubtlessly bothersome.

Countless times had Syrenne stepped out of a room, tent, or bath and slipped upon the ice that would spawn beneath her feet to be met with a cheeky comment (or something about admiring parts of her he shouldn't have seen, leading to many interventions from Dagran). It had occurred so often that she'd begun to expect Lowell's magical traps, adjusting to walking on ice or avoiding the spell altogether. He would stop, then, before using his arcane skills to infuriate Syrenne further in some other manner. There were several offenses of varying levels of meddlesome; he'd frozen her beer in her mug spontaneously only once, and the resulting damage had convinced both Dagran and Zael to make Lowell swear to never commit such an incredible act of stupidity ever again. Thus far, he'd stuck to it.

Lowell was a scoundrel, no doubt, and as Syrenne stood at the pier with Mirania and Yurick, waiting semi-patiently for the rest if their merry band so they could make a pretty penny off this Lazulis Island business, an ingrained sense of danger warned her of impending icy peril.

The ground below them erupted into a thick layer of ice, and both mages slipped ungainly (and surely Yurick only swore like that when he was pissed as she often got!) while Syrenne already had her hands on the hilts of her swords.

"Really, Lowell?" she heard Dagran sigh as he and Zael rounded a stack of large crates that were to be stored on the ship. Following behind them looking entirely too happy was the dastardly ice lummox himself, and Syrenne almost saw red.

Yurick was already spitting angry insults at Lowell like cannon fire, but with the trouble he was having finding stable purchase in the spell circle made him appear like an upset kitten trying to intimidate a mutt.

"Ah, don't be too mad, mate," Lowell spoke over Yurick's impotent slander. "After all, you should be thankin' me."

Syrenne noticed Zael and Dagran immediately step away from Lowell, though their twin exasperated expressions did not deepen or lessen.

"And why's that?" queried Mirania from the ground, seemingly perfectly content to remain there until the spell vanished.

Syrenne grit her teeth when Lowell ignored the question to say, "My apologies to have gotten you in my circle, Mirania." He half-bowed towards her before straightening up and staring confidently at Syrenne. It took no less, and she counted, than two seconds before his eyes strayed lower than her face.

Knuckles turned white as fingers clenched tightly over sword hilts.

To Yurick, Lowell continued, "I'll let you know why y'should be thankin' me. Syrenne, darling, tell me: is it a tad nippy in that circle?"

Syrenne didn't so much trust spell casters so much as she depended on them. She depended on Yurick's fire spell to cancel out Lowell's circle of ice, and without that hindrance, she was upon the bastard in no time flat, dual blades raised in anticipation of a slaughter.


End file.
